Thou shouldst be crown'd with victory's crown--but oh! more meet they seem,

The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the stream!

More mect for one so fondly loved, and laid thus early low

Alas! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sunshine's glow:

The golden glow that through thy heart was wont such joy to send,—

Woe! that it smiles, and not for thee !-my brother and my friend!"

WOMAN ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE.

GENTLE and lovely form,
What didst thou here,
When the fierce battle-storm
Bore down the spear?

Banner and shiver'd crest,
Beside thee strown,
Tell, that amidst the best,
Thy work was done!

Yet strangely, sadly fair,
O'er the wild scene,

Gleams through its golden hair

That brow serene.

Low lies the stately head,-
Earth-bound the free;
How gave those haughty dead
A place to thee?

Slumberer! thine early bier
Friends should have crown'd,
Many a flower and tear
Shedding around.

Soft voices, clear and young,
Mingling their swell,
Should o'er the dust have sung

Earth's last farewell.

Trampling thy place of sleep,

Why camest thou here?

Why? ask the true heart why

Woman hath been

Ever where brave men die,

Unshrinking seen?

Unto this harvest ground
Proud reapers came,-
Some, for that stirring sound,
A warrior's name;

Some, for the stormy play
And joy of strife;
And some, to fling away

A weary life;

But thou, pale sleeper, thou,

With the slight frame,

And the rich locks, whose glow Death cannot tame;

Only one thought, one power, Thee could have led,

So, through the tempest's hour,
To lift thy head!

Only the true, the strong,
The love, whose trust
Woman's deep soul too long
Pours on the dust!

THE FESTAL HOUR.

WHEN are the lessons given

That shake the startled earth? When wakes the foe

While the friend sleeps? When falls the traitor's blow?

When are proud sceptres riven,

High hopes o'erthrown?-It is when lands rejoice, When cities blaze and lift th' exulting voice, And wave their banners to the kindling heaven!

Fear ye the festal hour!

When mirth o'erflows, then tremble !-'Twas a

night

Of gorgeous revel, wreaths, and dance, and light,
When through the regal bower

The trumpet peal'd, ere yet the song was done,
And there were shrieks in golden Babylon,
And trampling armies, ruthless in their power.

The marble shrines were crown'd: Young voices through the blue Athenian sky, And Dorian reeds, made summer melody,

And censers waved around;

And lyres were strung and bright libations pour'd! When, through the streets, flash'd out th' avenging

sword,

Fearless and free, the sword with myrtles bound!

Through Rome a triumph pass'd.
Rich in her sun-god's mantling beams went by
That long array of glorious pageantry,
With shout and trumpet-blast.

An empire's gems their starry splendor shed
O'er the proud march; a king in chains was led;
A stately victor, crown'd and robed, came last.

And many a Dryad's bower

Had lent the laurel's which, in waving play, Stirr'd the warm air, and glisten'd round his way,

As a quick-flashing shower.

-O'er his own porch, meantime, the cypress hung,

Through his fair halls a cry of anguish rungWoe for the dead!-the father's broken flower!

A sound of lyre and song,

In the still night, went floating o'er the Nile, Whose waves, by many an old mysterious pile, Swept with that voice along;

And lamps were shining o'er the red wine's foam Where a chief revell'd in a monarch's dome, And fresh rose-garlands deck'd a glittering throng.

'Twas Antony that bade

The joyous chords ring out !-but strains arose Of wilder omen at the banquet's close!

Sounds, by no mortal made,

Shook Alexandria through her streets that night. And pass'd-and with another sunset's light, The kingly Roman on his bier was laid.